Brings Rain - An Elder Scrolls Story
by Okan-Zeeus
Summary: In the southern reaches of Morrowind, a team of Argonians set out to crush a splinter of Dark Elves, garrisoned within an ancient netch plantation. The An-Xileel of Black Marsh send an assassin to accompany the team in their task. Yet the assassin, much to their surprise, is a child...
1. Part 1

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

An Elder Scrolls Story

_Part 1 of 3_

Calls-From-Afar was never one for questioning leadership. Yet as she looked upon the young hatchling's face, adolescent and smooth-scaled, even _her_ trust in the An-Xileel's wisdom wavered. Her team had been promised the aid of a great assassin. They were given a child.

"Are we so lucky to be egg-sitters now?" Croon-Tail hissed, brushing a hand over the feathers on his head.

"Be silent," Calls snapped at the mage, "Your place is not to argue. I will decide if this one is fit for our mission."

The woman with copper scales and crown-like spines returned her attention to the hatchling. He held her stare with no trace of emotion. Cold and still, like a morning fog.

"The An-Xileel have sent you to us in good faith, have they?" she mused aloud, giving a slight flick of her tail.

"I must believe so," the hatchling said softly.

Calls folded her arms, studying the small Argonian. She was a battle maiden of many cycles and no stranger to fighting alongside bright-eyed youths. Countless numbers joined the An-Xileel's armies with zeal, eager to serve the people of the root, and by extension the Hist. Yet something was different about this one. The hatchling bore an unsettling presence. His black jerkin, knit skillfully from threads of kresh and silverweave, clung tightly to his slender frame. Not even Calls had the privilege to brand armor made from such prized materials – she settled for steel, her men jute and leather. Open toed boots and fingerless gloves were worn to good effect, brandishing the sharpness of the hatchling's claws. Upon his sash were a pair of quicksilver swords and numerous throwing knives, among other utilities. A hood cloaked his face, the top half of his snout painted over with black and white pigments resembling the likeness of a skull. He stood a foot below Calls in height.

The boy had arrived at their camp moments ago. Calls and her men were told to wait for his coming in the deep ranges of South-East Morrowind, near the former city of Tear. Though not nearly what she expected, Calls could see that this was no mere child. Everything about his surface appearance was fierce, formidable…

Everything but his eyes. Sky-blue, with widened slit pupils. Their softness betrayed his cool demeanor.

"What are you called among your tribe?" Calls asked, her jade eyes meeting his.

"Brings-Rain," the boy replied, quietly, "Are we ready to begin our task…?"

"_We_ are ready. What remains to be seen is if _you_ are," Croon-Tail muttered.

"Either he will be or he won't. You don't know any better than us," Sleeps-in-Shade sighed, standing up from his slouch against a granite boulder. Croon regarded the brawny, brown lizard with disdain, before turning to a slim green figure sitting cross-legged in the ash.

"No words from you, Hides-in-Mud?" Croon prodded, "This hatchling wears the garb of a shadow walker. You aren't worried he'll get in your way?"

Mud kept mute, as often as always. He never concerned himself with petty squabbles.

"Enough, Croon-Tail. The boy is our ally," Calls said, "Young or no, we will treat him as such."

"What help can this egg-spawn offer? We do not need him. He will only slow us down!" the grey-scaled mage contested.

"Burdening you with my presence is not the reason I am here," Brings-Rain said softly. He was averting his eyes, peering off into the distance. Calls-From-Afar could not tell if he was lacking in confidence, or merely shy.

"You believe you are able, young one?" she asked. The hatchling returned a firm gaze.

"I will do as I must," he said. That answer would have to suffice.

"Then you join our brood at this hour," Calls replied, turning to her men, "Grab your gear. We reach the plantation by the sun's full tilt. No arguments on the way, understand?"

"Yes," Shade said, erecting the spine of submission.

"…Thoughts received," Croon hissed.

Mud nodded in agreement.

With that, the four gathered themselves and resumed their journey through the forest of trees and giant mushrooms, Brings-Rain in tow. He kept silent the whole way, intently observing his surroundings. Patches of tall grass sprung from beneath the dry, ash covered ground riddled with knolls and crevasses. They passed by a colony of scribs, insect-like creatures the size of melons, busily scavenging the surface world for food. All the while, ash fell softly from the plumes of Red Mountain, blown southward. Calls wondered if this was the boy's first time in Morrwind. Few Argonians would bother traveling to Tear from Black Marsh. Before the Red Year, this region had been fertile farmland, filled with dozens of Dark Elf plantations. Earthquakes and ash-fall since scarred the landscape, leaving wastelands in their wake. Yet nature was slowly taking back its foothold, century by century. Calls could sense its silent struggle to survive, walking amidst the scarce and ragged plant life.

She began thinking to herself. _Why have the Dark Elves returned to _this_ place? _When the reports first came to her, she found them hard to believe. A splinter from House Dres somehow managed to garrison themselves in an ancient netch farm. They were not present in bulk, but their numbers were great enough to have seen little resistance from the Argonians living there – two sentries and a small agrarian family. Their bodies were found near the coast of the Padomaic Ocean. Under normal circumstances, the An-Xileel could have easily crushed this splinter group. But the elves possessed a powerful magic that protected their plantation. By reports from the scouts who survived, only those possessing a special mark could tread the grounds without fear of harm.

_These red-eyes think themselves clever… They will soon be shamed. _The An-Xileel's shamans quickly deciphered the nature of this protective mark, with successful replication. The field was leveled. Calls and her men were to brand themselves with it, infiltrate the plantation, and destroy the source of the Dark Elves' magic.

As the sun drifted along its arc, sinking below the line where land met sky, the band of Argonians arrived at a peculiar Emperor Parasol. Its stalk bore patterned markings in its flesh. Croon inspected them closely, stepping beneath the mushroom's shade.

"This is the scout's mark. The plantation isn't far," he said.

"Search for high ground. We need a better view of the area," Calls ordered. They had to be certain of their position. Whatever magic the elves possessed, it triggered with proximity. To stumble on accident into its range would bring swift death.

"There is no high ground here," Croon replied, "The nearest rock formations are several miles away. We…"

He stopped mid-sentence, watching Hides-in-Mud as he tethered up to the top of the mushroom with a grappling rope. It easily supported his weight – the stalks of Emperor Parasols are as sturdy as any tree trunk.

"You're getting slow on the draw, Croon. Mud's already bored," Shade chuckled.

"I was about to suggest climbing that…" the mage huffed, tail hanging limp.

Mud settled down on his belly. From below, his head looked like a sailfish with its dorsal fin above the water. Retrieving a telescope from his bag of supplies, he began surveying the land.

"Can you see the plantation?" Calls asked.

"Yes. Two miles off," Mud replied in a raspy voice, "I count seven elves on patrol. Six netches." Though the plantation was centuries old, it had been restored to its original function by the Argonians living in it. They raised netches on the farm for their leather and jelly. The Dark Elves were content to do the same.

"What about the stone the scouts mentioned?"

"It is at the top of a villa."

"What does it look like?" Croon inquired.

"Brick-laid. Three stories."

"I meant the stone, fool," Croon hissed. Mud shuffled in place.

"It is slender. Glowing white," he replied.

"What? Are you sure…?" Croon said skeptically, "That can't be right..."

He was expecting another description entirely. The mage climbed up Mud's rope without too much difficulty, despite his robes. He took the telescope, hunkering down on the other side of the parasol.

"By the Hist… It looks like a _Varla Stone_," he remarked, peering through the scope's glass eyehole, "How did the elves come to possess such a thing?"

"Varla Stone? I have not heard of this," Brings-Rain commented.

"Not surprising. Even I only possess cursory knowledge of them," Croon replied, "The stones are found deep within Cyrodiil's Aylied ruins, said to be forged from shooting stars." He handed back the telescope to Mud and rappelled to the ground, kicking up ash on landing. "Based on the descriptions we were given, they must have rigged the stone into a spellcaster trap. One that can fire deadly arcane bolts."

"Are spellcaster traps not powered with soul gems?" Brings-Rain questioned.

"Ordinarily they are. It looks like the elves have found a way to harness that Varla Stone for a like end. Their properties _are_ similar," Croon mulled, a troubled look on his face, "Of course, compared to a soul gem, a Varla stone is much more potent in some ways."

"How so?" the hatchling asked.

"Hmm. You're very inquisitive," the mage remarked, eyeing the boy, "I assume you know how soul gems are filled and used to recharge enchantments. Varla Stones can do the same, but instead of providing a single, measurable charge, they are capable of restoring an almost indefinite number of enchantments to full capacity. A single Varla Stone could recharge an army's worth of enchanted weapons and gear."

Croon-Tail let out a grumbling snarl, directing his frown at the others.

"Do you all see why this is a problem? It is this charge that powers a soulcaster trap. Even a common soul gem can last for scores of castings, given the right conditions. With a Varla Stone, the trap in that tower could remain powered for… I don't know _how_ long. That's not even considering the strength of its spellcasting."

"Can we destroy it?" Calls asked.

"The stone? No, not with the resources we have," Croon said, "But it is set upon a large pedestal base, etched with channeling runes I'd wager – they are needed to direct the stone's charge. Remove the stone from the pedestal and the trap will cease to function."

Calls smiled. There were days when Croon's smugness proved more than a little irritating, but his knowledge never failed to impress. She could always count on him.

"Then we know our river's course. We get to the tower, steal the stone, and prepare for the attack," she said, "Croon, you have your scroll, yes?"

Croon-Tail gave his affirmative. Calls and her men were the _first_ phase of the An-Xileel's plan, paving the way for a larger offensive. Argonians were gathering in great numbers not far from the plantation. Once Calls' team disabled the spellcaster trap, they were to regroup with the attack force and aid in their assault. In the event they could not escape, however, Croon possessed a scroll containing a powerful shock spell, one that would surge and coil through the clouds when cast into the sky. It could easily be seen at night. Casting the spell would signal the Argonians to attack.

"Everyone gather to me. I'll begin inscribing marks on all of you," Croon said, pulling out a small jar from his bag. The others complied. One by one, the mage began smearing runic symbols onto their foreheads with a pasty red substance. Croon worked quickly while there was sunlight left to spare.

"Kaah… I still say they should mark everyone. Attack the camp all at once," Shade groaned, inspecting his weapon set one final time – a sharp flint mace and leather shield nearly double the height of his chest. Brings-Rain stared at the big brown Argonian, sitting quietly on the ground.

"Ignore him. Shade is whining. He dislikes the thought of having to sneak our way in," Croon muttered to the boy, keeping up his work.

"We should be striking these elves together! We would overwhelm them easily!" Shade insisted.

"You know why we can't do that. You heard the report…" Calls began, tightening the strap on her greatsword's sheath. The last scout to observe the plantation witnessed an accident – one of the elves broke a netch egg while the parent was unrestrained. It became enraged and defended its young on instinct. The Varla Stone was used to put down the netch, even though it was branded with the elves' protective seal. "…The red-eyes can control this trap of theirs directly. Even while marked, they could still target our forces with its magic."

"The elves will be expecting us," Shade grumbled, "They know our ways by now, don't they? We are old enemies, tired and using the same tricks. Now is our chance to be unpredictable!"

"That is not worth risking a dead charge. The cost would be too great," Brings-Rain said, "Tired tricks or no, we are here to prevent loss of life."

Calls regarded the boy with some surprise. He had not spoken out about anything until now. There was no reading him. For this reason she remained concerned – not merely for Rain, but also for her command of him. She knew her men would keep calm under pressure and follow her orders to the letter. They had for years. There was no guarantee that this hatchling would do the same. She did not have his loyalty, nor even a decent grasp of his abilities, though her leaders had spoken highly of him. Was he really so capable despite being so young? Her team could not afford a dead weight. If the boy lacked experience…

_No. Don't dwell on such thoughts._ The An-Xileel would not have sent him just to sabotage their efforts. He seemed compliant and level-headed, if nothing else.

"There. I am finished," Croon said, setting down a small mirror. He had marked himself last. The group was ready.

They advanced toward the plantation as darkness fell, sky draped over with misty clouds. Sounds of talk among the elves and crackling fires came slowly into hearing. Moving swiftly but silently through the ash, the five stopped within clear view of the plantation's outer walls, lined with burning coal pits. A sentry stood on patrol atop a wooden tower near the netch enclosure, clad in chitin armor. The netches, meanwhile, were afloat in the air, tethered by ropes. It was a strange sight to see the giant, jellyfish-like creatures. They never touched the ground, even while sleeping. Ash fell upon their carapaces. In the distance, the Varla Stone gleamed against a hazy backdrop of darkness, high atop a villa at the other end of the plantation grounds. A second building stood beside it, slightly smaller. Calls glanced over at Brings-Rain. He was clutching the pommel on one of his swords, a faraway look on his face. Shade drew close to the boy.

"Afraid?" he asked, "Don't be. Calls-From-Afar will see us through this. The Hist favor her." Calls shook her head at the mention of that. Shade was always quick to sing her praises. Perhaps a little too quick.

"I fear neither pain nor death. Do not concern yourself with me," the hatchling said flatly. He would not reveal what he was _truly_ afraid of.

"How will we approach?" Hides-In-Mud asked his leader. Calls regarded the layout of the farm for a moment.

"We go around. Make our way to the back wall and find a point of entry," she said.

"We should put Mud on reconnaissance," Croon suggested, "Let him scour the area and find a path into the villa." Mud nodded his agreement. He could do that. Calls, meanwhile, mulled over a thought that crossed her mind.

"Very well," Calls said, "Take the young one with you, too. See how he performs."

The men startled. Croon was swift to glare in response. Calls could smell his worry.

"Are you _sure_ that's wise?" the mage whispered harshly.

"Maybe it is not my call to make," Calls replied, turning to the boy, "Do you think you can keep up with Hides-In-Mud?"

"Yes. Easily," Brings-Rain said. He did not sound provocative, despite the remark. Nonetheless, Mud arched an eyebrow, tail stiffening somewhat.

"Good. You two take to the left. The three of us will go right. We reunite at the far end of the grounds," Calls declared, "May the Hist guide us."

The group split up, slinking their separate ways. Croon began silently casting a muffle spell. A soft, wisp-like fog appeared beneath Calls' boots. Then Shade's and Croon's. Every step that fell from the trio was now noiseless. Hides-In-Mud was the only true shadow walker in Calls' outfit. Croon's magic allowed them to employ comparable stealth without skill or training – a tremendous boon, one that allowed the group to work more in harmony. Calls-From-Afar had led three teams in her lifetime and ran alongside several others, but this one was arguably the best. They survived where so many before would have fallen. Mud, Shade, and Croon were the most reliable and loyal men she had ever known. They were true egg brothers in honor. She felt proud to lead them.

Keeping a safe distance from sentries, the group trudged on. A Dark Elf upon another wooden tower stretched his arms lazily, conversing with a friend below. Calls knew enough Tamrielic to get by, but she could not make out the content of their conversation. She stared at the grey-skinned elves angrily. This place – the plantation – was a reminder of her people's suffering at the hands of the elves. The old generations passed down stories of plantations like this one. Towers now warding intruders once served to imprison farm workers, forced to toil for the red-eyes of House Dres. Of all the great houses, theirs formed the agricultural backbone of Morrowind in olden days. Dres strictly followed ancient Dunmeri traditions. This included the practice of slavery.

And what better place to find slaves than the swamps just south of their border? Argonians made perfect laborers – they were little more than 'beasts,' after all… capable of living in harsh conditions and resisting disease. Entire villages were captured and sold, tribes and families torn apart. All for economic viability.

This went on for centuries. But the cruelty could not persist forever. The elves had to have known – they were sowing seeds of discord. After hundreds of years, the people of the root had their chance to reap a bountiful harvest. The Red Mountain erupted. The Dark Elves faced disaster. And so they were _weakened_. The An-Xileel invaded Morrowind and took from them the southern lands that Argonian hands had tilled. Now these elves were _back_, no longer feared foreigners of the north. They were like flesh flies, buzzing and biting. Calls hissed to herself. Would her people ever be rid of them?

"There are a lot of guards here," Shade said softly, "Do you think these elves have grown in numbers?"

"Not likely," Croon replied, "Though they _have _been here for over a week already. Perhaps given more time they would grow bold and slip in reinforcements."

"So close to our borders, but still holding their ground," Shade grumbled, "These grey-skins are taunting us. They think that they h–"

There was a sudden crack, loud and booming.

Bright light flashed in the sky as a bolt of lightning lashed out from the Varla Stone, striking some place beyond on the other side of the plantation. Calls felt her heart skip a beat. The dark elves were on alert, calling out to one another to investigate the disturbance.

"No- Was that...!?" Croon exclaimed softly, stirring in place.

"Keep calm. It might not have been them," Shade hissed.

"By the Hist… I… Could I have marked someone incorrectly? Did I make a mistake? No, no… I couldn't have…" Croon looked distressed, almost guilt-ridden.

"What do we do?" Shade asked, anxiously.

Calls grimaced. How could the Varla Stone have detected the others? If they were in trouble, would a rescue be worth the risk? That was assuming someone _needed_ to be rescued. In her mind she saw Hides-In-Mud and the hatchling, one dead and the other surrounded by red-eyes. There was no way to predict what Brings-Rain would do, but she knew Mud would take advantage of the chaos. He would try to escape unseen and regroup. If not… he would prolong a diversion. Calls stole herself and focused.

"We keep moving to the back. The elves are distracted," she said, "Anyone still alive will have to meet us there."

_By the Hist, I hope at least one of them does…_


	2. Part 2

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

An Elder Scrolls Story

_Part 2 of 3_

Shade cursed under his breath. The three resumed their pace and wound around to the other side of the plantation's walls. Several armed elves kept watch along a balcony that wrapped around the villa's highest floor. The box-like building was grand in size, perhaps the vestige of some powerful Dark Elf family. The Argonians hunkered down back behind a cluster of mushrooms. A pair of guards made their way around the outer wall, torches glowing against its flat coarse rock. The Varla Stone shone above on the villa's rooftop. It was so close…

For several minutes they waited. There were no signs of Hides-In-Mud or Brings-Rain.

"Where are they?" Shade muttered, peering out into the dead of night.

"Stop trying to see them, fool. If they're alive, they're staying out of sight," Croon replied.

"They can at least give us a sign. We can't wait forever…!"

"We will wait as long as it takes. Mud would do the same for us."

"Croon, trust me, I want to believe that he's alive as much as you. But if that Varla Stone somehow killed–"

A raspy voice suddenly cleared its throat. The three looked back. Sure enough, there they were: both Mud and Rain, alive and breathing.

"You were saying something?" Croon nudged Shade's rib cage.

Calls let out a sigh of relief, silently thanking the Hist.

"By Sithis, you had us scared!" Shade exclaimed softly, patting Mud on the shoulder as he stooped down beside him, "What happened?"

"A wild guar. It got too close," Mud remarked. Apparently the Varla Stone did not discriminate its targets. Calls looked to the hatchling. He was breathing faster than before.

"Faring well?" she asked.

"I am fine," Brings-Rain said. He remained calm, but it was clear he had been shaken.

Mud motioned toward the boy. "Guards went after the noise. They nearly saw him. He was quick. He has good instinct." Appraisal from Mud was unusual, praise even more so. The hatchling must have done something to impress.

"Good to hear. I was worried about both of you," Calls said, smiling, "Were you able to gather anything useful?" Mud growled softly.

"Heard sounds inside the second building. A guard house. Saw through windows in the villa, too. There may be dozens," he said, grimly.

"_Dozens?_"

"Some women and children, but mostly soldiers," Rain hissed.

"Damn it all!" Croon cursed, "The scout reports spoke nothing of a gathering that large."

"Did you say there were _children _here?" Shade interrupted.

"Yes… They brought their families. They must truly believe they can stay," Brings-Rain said somberly.

"They will not," Calls said, "We are evicting them tonight. Did either of you spot a clear path to the villa?"

Mud shook his head in the negative. Rain looked thoughtful.

"There was one thing… A basement entrance, I think, at the side of the building facing the guard house," he said.

"You _think_…?" Croon replied.

"I did not get a good look at it. But there were elves keeping post. Something is there."

"That's not much to go off of."

"Better than nothing," Mud chimed in, "We should try. I believe this one."

Calls and Rain exchanged looks.

"If Mud is willing to bet on it, so will I," she said, "Get ready. We scale this wall on my move."

The band of Argonians carefully watched the balcony patrols. Calls advanced and the others kept close behind. One by one, they lifted each other over the walls without making a sound. Torchlight was scarce, but still enough to leave the group exposed. They moved quickly, pressing against the villa, slowly creeping to its corner. Calls caught the sight of a nearby tree – it looked as though some creature had taken a bite out of its trunk. Scorch marks implied the Varla Stone was the culprit. How many had already died by its lightning? Calls could only wonder.

"Is it there?" Calls whispered, inquiring the basement entrance. Shade peered ever so slightly around the corner and nodded, holding up two fingers for two guards. Brings-Rain moved up to take a look himself.

"I can take them both," he whispered. Calls glared at the boy.

"No. Stay here. Shade and Mud will handle this," she replied, motioning for the two to set up. Mud slinked away to the guard house nearby, keeping beneath a cover of shadow. The two guards, brandishing spears, quickly brought their attention to the sound of a rustling bush. Mud was drawing them out for Shade to make the first strike; he would follow that felling with an arrow from his short bow. The elves passed glances to one another, but held their ground. Shade scowled, hanging back, mace firmly in hand.

"They won't make this easy," he muttered. They needed to strike both quickly enough so that one could not yell out to the others.

Watching closely, Calls began to consider another course of action, before she noticed something moving. Surprise and a small bit of panic settled in. Brings-Rain had gone past her and Shade, rounding the corner. He was going for the guards, clutching his throwing knife like a dagger. Its blade reflected soft orange firelight. In the span of a blink, the hatchling had already slit the throat of the closest guard. He stretched his free arm up to muffle the Dark Elf's mouth, pulling down, and kicked a leg from underneath, wrestling him to the ground in a single fluid motion. Blood sprayed on the ash covered soil. The elf's companion had no time to react. The boy's knife was already tossed through the air – it sank clean into the man's skull. Brings-Rain leapt over and caught the body before it fell on the ground. A trickle of red seeped down from the head wound onto the hatchling's arm.

It was over in seconds. Both guards were dead.

"Help me with this…!" Brings-Rain hissed to a gawking Sleeps-In-Shade. The boy was carrying the limp elf's corpse back behind the villa, swishing his tail in the blood-soaked ash to scatter his trail. Shade rushed over to the other and did the same. As they laid the bodies down, Croon stared at them in disbelief. Calls threw a furious look at the hatchling, hiding her own astonishment.

"Didn't I tell you to stay back!?" she snapped in hushed tones.

"Your men were slow. I am sorry. I saw an opportunity and seized it," Brings-Rain said softly. His chest rose and fell with long, even breaths.

"That _wasn't_ your call to make," Calls hissed.

"I know," the hatchling replied, pausing for a moment. He looked sad, his eyes flicking toward the two corpses behind him. "They were guarding a small stairway. It leads down to a locked door. We should be quick – the others will smell the bodies."

"Mud's already working on the lock," Shade whispered, peaking out again.

Calls held her gaze at the hatchling. He deliberately went against her orders. That was something she had trouble tolerating. But did he act out of contempt? He saw what her men were trying to do. He decided he could do it faster. No hesitation, no regard for command, just… execution. There was something frightening about that. Something extraordinary, too. Calls began to see why the An-Xileel had sent him.

_To be able to kill with such calculated speed, at his age… What kind of training has this young one been given?_

"The river flows onward. Let's go," Calls said, pushing her grievances aside. She would speak to the hatchling once the mission was over. The Argonians filed down the stairway, entering through a set of rounded wood doors, and found themselves inside a dark and dusty basement. Grain stores lined the walls and cluttered the floor, along with scattered urns and storage shelves lined to the brim. Colorful, patterned rugs laid a pathway through the maze-like room. Some of this stock might have been from the agrarian family, but much of it looked new with no traces of dust. These elves were well dug-in. Mud took point, leading the group toward another set of stairs. Light bled down them from a small lantern.

"…again. This time make sure you have enough torches." They slowly began to hear a brusque voice speaking above. A clamor of footsteps followed. Mud motioned for the others to stay back.

"You really think that Guar was bait?" another voice spoke up. Female this time, even toned.

"They're smart enough to try a move like that. If we find them here, we'll know for certain."

"I almost hope we do for once…"

More footsteps, followed by a door closing shut. Mud climbed the stairs and gave an all-clear signal. The others slowly followed his lead to the floor above. They would have to find another stairwell to keep going up. The villa's masonry felt claustrophobic. Calls noticed Rain tensing a little as they snuck down a candle-lit hallway. A door ahead had been closed, but not all the way. It swung open a crack. Conversation slipped out.

"Go console the mothers and make sure there's no unrest," the male voice spoke again. Mud positioned himself by the edge of the doorway, knife in hand. Calls and the others rushed by.

"There will be," the woman replied flatly.

"Then do as I ask!" the man growled.

More footsteps. The door did not open. The woman had taken some other passage out of the room. There followed a moment of silence.

"How long would you have them endure this, Gilyn?" an elderly man spoke up.

"Don't pester me," Gilyn replied, "Get your sword. We need to search the grounds."

"Can't you see by now? This is a warzone. Not a place for families. We should have never let our men bring them along."

"Dalvus, this isn't the time!"

"If the scale-skins _are _here…"

A fist pounded on a wooden table. Mud winced, catching up to his team.

"Help me _stop them_, then! Don't start questioning choices we made months ago!" Gilyn yelled. His voice resounded down to the end of hall where Calls lingered. As Mud passed her, rounding the corner, the doorway opened and two Dark Elf men stepped out. One was old and grizzled, with a thick brown beard upon his slender face and balding head. He wore a suit of netch-plate armor. The other looked to be in his prime, with high cheek bones and a head of long black hair tied back. A dark swirling tattoo rested on his left cheek. The man was clad a set of peculiar armor, not heavily plated, but with the plates clearly composed of black ebony. Both elves had greyish-blue skin and large, bright red eyes.

"We've stayed here. We can _keep_ staying here. That's what we have to prove," Gilyn said, pointing a finger at his companion as they walked further down the hall.

_That wild guar is bringing us a lot of trouble, _Calls thought to herself. She quickly caught up with her men and hung back at the rear. They continued onward, starting and stopping as they navigated the villa's halls. The more Calls considered their task ahead, the grimmer it seemed. They couldn't destroy the Varla Stone, so they had to sneak it out. That would be simple enough… if it was not brightly glowing. They could conceal it with a cloth or bag, but the Dark Elves would notice its absence. It was practically a beacon in the night. Once they removed the stone, they would have two choices: try somehow to escape the plantation with it, or signal the attack and hold their ground until the An-Xileel could arrive.

Considering their opposition, neither option sounded pleasant.

They pressed on through the building and soon found its main stairwell. The steps did not ascend any further than the third floor. _How do we reach the roof…? _Calls wondered. Mud was continuing his lead, careful to watch for patrols. Despite the clamor of many elves outside, there were still plenty within the villa. That did not stop it from feeling barren. Only hallways or certain rooms were lit, with next to no furnishings. Nearly the entire floor, it seemed, was left unused – even untouched. Entire chambers were empty and dust-filled, with centuries of wear openly visible. The group passed long cracks that crept along the stone walls and floors like fissures, some sealed and repaired with adhesive. Impressive to think that this building sustained such little damage during the Red Year… Calls suspected any slave huts might not have been so fortunate. She saw none back out on the farm.

"Let's make for the balcony," Croon suggested, "We can climb to the roof from there."

Mud nodded in agreement. That would be faster than searching for another set of stairs, though they would have to deal with the patrols. The Argonians routed their way toward the backend of the villa and into a small room, nearly empty save for a couple of wicker baskets. They stacked up against an archway that led to the outdoors. Shade peered out, noticing an elf along the balcony making his way toward them. He waited patiently, muscles tense, exchanging brief eye contact with Croon. As the man began walking by the archway, Shade grabbed him and threw him inside. Croon quickly conjured a ball-shaped bundle of light in his hand, glowing green, and threw a paralyzing spell. Shade set down the wide-eyed elf on the ground, his body stiff as a board of wood. A knife to the jugular ended him. They hid the corpse behind the wicker baskets and rushed out of the archway.

Calls and Mud used their grappling ropes to reach the roof first. As they climbed over the outer lip, the battle maiden set her eyes on their goal – the Varla Stone. It looked much smaller up close. The slender crystal gave off pure white light, its bottom half encased inside a wrapping of metal, like claws grabbing at it from underneath. It stood atop a strange, almost cone-like pedestal, tall with patterned etchings running down its surface. She could not make out its compositional material, though it appeared at first glance to be stone. Other markings rung below the base were faintly glowing red. Calls spotted a trapdoor hatch where the elves could come up from. She ordered Shade to go hold it down as he finished climbing. Croon and Rain came last, retrieving the ropes behind them. Calls took a single step forward toward the stone. Croon pulled her back.

"Stop!" he whispered sharply, "There are fire runes all around the base of that thing! I will have to dispel them first."

"It's alright. I assumed there would be traps," Calls replied, calmly, "We'll hang back. Do what you have to, but be quick."

Croon went over to the glowing red marks, slowing down as he neared the edge of their boundary. He began working his magic, hands emitting a soft light-blue glow. Anyone foolish enough to step inside a fire rune would quickly find themselves engulfed in flames. He_ could_ set off the runes without actually stepping on them, eliminating the danger, but that would create an explosion of fire. Hardly unnoticeable. They had to wring their element of surprise for every last drop they had. _Just a little while longer…_

An outcry of shouting rang from below. Calls-From-Afar cursed.

"They found the bodies," Mud whispered softly.

The Argonians backed further away from the edges of the roof. Shade stayed atop the trap door. Across the plantation, Dark Elves broadcasted the alarm. Calls looked over to Brings-Rain. He was tense, eyes scanning for the slightest sign of a threat.

"In battle we bleed…" the boy whispered beneath his breath.

"Calls…!" Croon hissed.

"What? What is it?" Calls hissed back.

"These runes… I don't think I can dispel them…! My magic isn't strong enough!"

_No! Hist spit on these red-eyes! We were so close!_ Any hope of sneaking out was nearly dashed. Calls could hear the elves' frenzied footfalls. They were converging toward the villa, ready to protect their precious Varla Stone. The beast was about to sink in its teeth. So which would it be? Fight? Or flight…?

The peak of a ladder suddenly rested on the lip of the roof, followed by another off on the opposite side. Sounds of climbing. Mud, Rain, and Shade drew their weapons.

_Fight, then._

"Get the stone! Now!" Calls hollered. Croon cast a spell on the fire runes, unleashing an eruption of flames. They lit up the night as Dark Elves poured onto the roof, nearly matching Calls' team in numbers. Each branded swords and netch-plate armor. The battle maiden unsheathed her greatsword and joined the fray, intercepting two elves trying to pair up against Shade. She landed a pommel strike on one raising his sword high to swing. Shade easily blocked the blade of the other and held a tight defensive stance. Mud ran and knocked over the ladder nearest to them before rejoining the fight with his short blade. Croon, meanwhile, unleashed a stream of fire down upon another elf trying to climb the second ladder. He cradled the Varla Stone in the crook of his arm, while Rain covered his flank. Calls clashed with her opponent. Her style of fighting preferred slow, heavy attacks with fast footwork. She dodged and parried to set up an opening. Calls invited the thrill of battle, relishing it – she was a storm no foe could contain, drifting on the wind, ready to strike with a blast. The elves were proving no match. She and her men repelled them well.

Of everyone, however, Brings-Rain fared best. If Calls was a storm, then the hatchling was a tempest. In a two-on-one fight, he already felled his first man, now engaging the second. He maintained an aggressive offensive with twin blades, delivering light, rapid strikes meant to unnerve his foe. The wide-eyed elf had no opening for counterattack, constantly forced to defend. As Calls cleaved through the shoulder of the man before her, she saw Rain in the corner of her eye, jabbing his sword in a crouched dive with unthinkable speed. The elf staggered, bleeding badly from his gut. A sweeping double slash tore clean through the elf's chestplate, ending him. Another two, dead in seconds.

"I can cast the signal!" Croon-Tail called out, bringing his spell scroll to bear.

"Do it!" Calls demanded.

Croon channeled the scroll's magic, welling a charge of electricity in his hand. He shot his arm up towards the sky. Blue lightning surged forth with a heralding boom. Clouds above caught the discharge, rumbling and flashing with thunder. The light expanded outward in a ring and covered the plantation with its glow before fizzling away. In a span of three heartbeats, the signal was sent.

Shade finished off his assailant with Mud's assistance and rushed back to the roof's trapdoor, keeping his weight on top as elves pounded against it from below. Croon stashed the Varla Stone away in his leather bag and came over, readied a fire spell. Shade counted to three, and then pulled open the hatch. A gout of flames met those below unlucky enough to be in the way. Shade closed shut the hatch again, remaining as before. Calls scanned for more ladders. _Can we hold this rooftop?_ She hoped so. It was a strong defensive position, though one that left them easily surrounded.

"How long before the assault arrives?" Croon asked, eyes darting in every direction.

"They can't be much more than a mile off to the west, at least close enough to see the signal," Calls replied, "For now, we hold here."

"Unless the elves find a way to drive us out," Brings-Rain hissed.

Calls saw no trace of any more ladders being climbed. She turned to Mud. "What are they doing? Are there any left on the farm?"

The shadow walker edged over to the lip of the roof and peered out.

"…Yes… Some. They are… carrying things," Mud replied.

"Carrying _what_ things?"

Mud looked closer. He sprang back in alarm.

"Netch eggs!"

A flurry of round objects hurled through the air, smashing against the walls just beneath the roof, spilling their contents. Each gave off a pungent odor. Calls dared to look out over the plantation. The netches inside their pens were untied, now floating toward the villa and up into the air. She cursed. They were enraged, defending their young, heading straight toward whatever was closest to the shattered eggs. _Toward them._

"Those clever bastards…!" Croon hissed. The Argonians began to slowly back away. A half-dozen of the great shelled creatures loomed before them, their underbellies emitting a deep blue luminescence, all the way down repulsively long tentacles.

"Calls! We've got a _big_ problem here!" Shade exclaimed.

"Back down to the balcony!" Calls shouted.

They ran to the back of the roof, dropping off its edge one after another, and made a break for the nearest doorway inside. Croon was the first to reach an archway entrance. "Through here!" he called out to the others, just as a Dark Elf sprang out of the archway. The mage barely had enough time to dodge a killing blow as the man's sword slashed into his side. Roaring, Shade ran to strike the elf. Croon managed to slip away from the scuttle of clashing weapons, clutching his wound on the ground. The others arrived just as Shade pinned the elf against a wall, giving a swift head-butt and knee to the groin.

Mud finished off the man with his sword as Shade hurried over to Croon, helping him through the archway. Rain went ahead and checked the door, giving an all-clear. They entered the hallway within, leaving the angry netches out of reach. Shade rested Croon back against the wall, pulling out bandages from his pack. Faint candle light flickered over them.

"Is it bad…?" Croon asked, groaning.

"Only if you're pregnant," Shade replied, "If you planned on sharing the news, now's a good time."

"Gah… Sithis forbid…"

Mud and Rain guarded the corridors on each side. Calls stared at Croon's injury, fighting back a growing sense of dread. Outnumbered and surrounded, with a man wounded… Their plight was becoming desperate. She had to stay focused. Her men were depending on her to see them through this. The An-Xileel would come soon – she forced herself to believe it. As long as there was hope, they had to keep fighting. Shade finished bandaging and slung the mage's arm over his shoulder, lifting him up.

"Hold that wound tight," he said, "Don't worry about the egg." Croon could only grunt in protest.

"Where to?" Mud asked. A group of Dark Elves appeared further down one end of the hallway. They brandished their weapons, closing in.

"This way!" Calls directed, heading the opposite direction. The others followed. Croon mustered what strength he had left and extended his arm back to let loose a wall of fire down the hall. Arcane flames clung to stone as though it were fuel for burning. The elves halted, turning back to search for an alternate path. And so the Argonians were freed from pursuit, winding their way through dimly lit passages. The villa had become a maze with dangers around every corner. They had to find someplace where they could stand their ground, and fast, lest they be overwhelmed.

_But where? Where could we possibly go…? _The waters were becoming clouded.

At last the stairwell came into view. Calls entered it and peered down, snarling. A small clutch of elves were climbing its steps. She called out for Shade to take point. The burly Argonian handed Croon over to Calls and planted himself on the top set of stairs, fending off attackers with his shield. A door further back down the hall slammed open. The red-eyes from before came rushing out. The Argonians were about to be boxed in on two fronts. Calls flinched in surprise. Brings-Rain pushed past her and broke into a sprint down the hallway, crashing headlong into the elves.

"What are you doing!?" Calls exclaimed.

"Holding them back! Keep going!" he roared, locking swords with an elf. Calls was about to sit Croon down and help the boy fight. Mud threw her a look of disapproval.

"He is covering our advance," the shadow walker said.

"We have to stand our ground _together!_ We can't let these red-eyes get–"

"Calls," Mud snapped, glaring, "We cannot hold here. Croon-Tail needs to leave." Calls gaped back at the green Argonian. What was she doing? Had she been so set on combatting the Dark Elves? _Croon will die if we try to stay here and fight, _Calls thought to herself. He was a liability to her entire team's defense and in bad need of a healer. Some would come with the assault. They had to reach them – his life depended on their escape.

That hatchling was a fool. But he was giving them something they needed now. Time.

"Keep pushing forward!" Calls ordered, filing behind Shade as he continued to press through the upsurge of attackers. Mud brought his short bow to bear. He sniped at the elves from behind Shade's shield, becoming the hammer for his wedge. They punched through the elves and descended to the first floor. Croon was passed back to Shade again. The mage looked to be in great pain, putting pressure on his wound. Sounds of fighting behind them grew faint. Calls felt a pang of regret. How long could Brings-Rain hold his own? She had to remain with her team – Croon needed protection. But that didn't stop her from wishing she had stayed back to fight with the boy.

Calls shook her head and reassured herself. _He is stronger than he looks. He will live._

The Argonians turned another corner and continued forward. To the cellar, to the main entrance... It did not matter, so long as the route was clear. They just had to find_ some way out_. It was a mad, single-minded goal. Numerous doorways and living quarters passed them by. Calls eyed each one, expecting an ambush to jump out at any moment. No such misfortune. Until they came to an intersection. Calls barely blocked the swing of a sword as it whipped around the bend. She found herself standing face to face with a Dark Elf clad in heavy ebon. Calls jumped back, hissing at the man. His face was hidden behind a thick visor. The warrior stood in front of them defiantly – a solid, impassable barrier.

Blades clashed as the two locked in combat. Behind, more elves were gathering. Shade rested Croon on the ground and prepared to fight, Mud alongside him. The narrow hallway proved an inadequate staging ground for either side. Calls took the offensive, adapting her tactics for close quarter combat. She fought half-sword, gripping the middle of her weapon's blade with her off-hand, thrusting at chinks in the elf's armor. Her attacks were relentless. She knew their window was closing. Croon was bleeding out and her men were growing tired. The only thing standing between them living or dying was the hallway behind this wall of ebon armor.

She was determined to knock it down.

Calls bashed aside a thrust from her opponent. _An opening._ Gripping the handle of her weapon as tightly as she could, Calls speared her blade into the Dark Elf's visor slit. The armored warrior creaked. His weapon fell to ground, followed by him himself. The crash of his armor upon the floor was final. The battle maiden had won.

But her men were losing. Shade's shield had been broken, forcing him and Mud to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. They struggled to keep the elves away from Croon. Calls turned back only to watch as Mud was knocked to the floor by one of the red-eyes. Another struck at Shade, forcing him away from his friend's defense. It all happened too quickly. Shade struggled to regain his ground. He raised his weapon to swing.

The assailing elf drew a knife and stabbed it into Shade's neck. The burly Argonian hollered in pain. He tried to keep fighting, thrashing wildly, blood seeping down into his armor. The elf rammed him against the wall. Slowly, sickeningly, he dragged his knife across Shade's throat. Calls beheld the scene in horror.

_No… no…!_

Croon struggled to come to his feet, readying a spell. He was too slow. The elf that broke past Mud plunged his sword through the mage's chest.

"NO!" Calls screamed, charging the elves.

Before Mud was struck dead on the ground, Calls drove her blade into the woman standing over him. She fought back the elves in a frenzy, mustering strength from some desperate well. One by one they died, unable to stop the fury of Calls' storm. As she pulled free her bloodied blade from the body of her last victim, she rushed back to her men. Sleeps-In-Shade laid slumped against the wall, unmoving, the life in his glossy eyes gone. He had already bled to death. Mud knelt beside Croon-Tail. The mage was coughing up a fit of blood. Slowly, he too became still. Mud looked away in shame. Calls reeled, leaning back against the wall, knees weak.

She hadn't been fast enough...

More were coming. Footsteps and yelling heralded their approach. Calls' body was protesting, refusing to move – grief threatened to overtake her. Mud stood and tugged at Calls' arm.

"We can reach the cellar," he implored, "We _must _escape."

The battle maiden took those words and held tightly to them, as though they were a lifeline. _The An-Xileel are depending on you, _she thought to herself,_ Mud is depending on you. Save the lives you still can. _She forced herself to kneel down beside Croon's body and retrieved his bag. The Varla Stone was still inside. She slung the bag over her shoulder, turning to the sad eyed shadow walker.

"Lead the way," Calls croaked.

They left behind their fallen, moving as quickly as they could, retracing their steps from earlier. Mud stopped just as they were about to curve down their final hallway. A pair of elves split up down at the end. One was coming toward them. Mud ambushed the young man and killed him. The two Argonians finally stepped into the stairwell, returning again to the musty basement. Some clay pots had been knocked over, no doubt from red-eyes rushing inside after finding their dead. The battle maiden came to a halt half-way through.

"Outside! Come!" Mud motioned for her to follow.

Calls-From-Afar stood still. She was a warrior of the An-Xileel. In all her life, not once had she fled from a battle. She was not versed in stealth; her mastered art was combat. She could never hope to keep up with Mud. Calls lived for many things – the chance to kill Dark Elves, the chance to watch her son grow old, the chance to prove herself as a leader, to keep her charges alive… What would she deny herself by leaving now?

What would she deny herself by staying…?

_Save the lives you still can…_

"I'm not going," Calls declared. Mud stared thoughtfully at his leader, as though searching for something. Calls could smell his worry. "I have to find Brings-Rain. If he's alive, I can't leave him here. You'll have a better chance of staying unseen without me."

There was a pause. Mud could only nod in response. He did not like this. But he understood. Calls handed over the bag containing the Varla Stone. Reluctantly, Mud reached out and grabbed its leather strap.

"I will not fail you," he said, clenching the bag in his claws.

"I know you won't."

Hides-In-Mud erected the spine of submission, and then slinked away into the darkness. Calls breathed in deep. It was time to resume the struggle. As she stepped back up into the villa's hall, dragging her hand against a wall, the face of a Dark Elf appeared in her mind. A man she had seen earlier. The one called Gilyn. _He_ was responsible for this atrocity. There was no question – Calls knew a leader when she saw one. She could feel her blood heat to a roving boil. She wanted him _dead_, to make him pay for taking lives so dear to her. After fighting alongside Shade and Croon for all of these years… just to lose them both… to the _damned red-eyes._ It left Calls sick. How many more would they take away from her?

She was going to find Brings-Rain. One way or another. But if given the chance to kill that man, she would not hesitate to take it.


	3. Part 3

**~ BRINGS RAIN ~**

An Elder Scrolls Story

_Part 3 of 3_

Calls evaded the patrols she could and set her ears on a distant voice. It sounded female, familiar. She approached a doorway left partially open. Inside was a large study of some sort. Faded blue textiles were draped onto the walls, desks pushed beneath them, alongside numerous wooden bookshelves. Most were bare, others possessing a scant text or two. Lamps bathed the room in soft light. A Dark Elf woman with short hair, clothed in a simple tan and red dress, was retrieving something from a locked strongbox. A netch-armored guard stood over her. There was an air of urgency about the woman. _What is she doing?_ Calls wondered, _Do these elves have more tricks in their bag…?_

She decided to put an end to whatever it was. The two elves whipped their attention to the study's door as Calls burst inside, sword drawn. The woman screamed. Her guard hastened to fend off the charging Argonian warrior. He never got a chance to arm himself. Calls cut him down in a single stroke and strode over to the elven woman, her armor splattered with blood. Cowering, backed into a corner, the woman stared at her, eyes alight with terror.

She was helpless. She posed no threat.

_ She is also my enemy,_ the Argonian thought coldly to herself, _She dies here._

Calls gripped her weapon. The woman's red eyes snapped to something other than her. Something behind. Calls hesitated, feeling a gentle puff of wind at her back. She spun around and brought her sword up flat to block. Another blade crashed into hers, swung by a Dark Elf in lightly plated ebony armor, with a swirling tattoo on his left cheek. Gilyn. He had come to the woman's rescue.

"You _dare_ attack my sister!?" he growled.

The battle maiden bared her teeth in a half-snarl, half-smile. Her prey had come to her. Good. Brings-Rain would have to wait a while longer. Calls pushed Gilyn away, clutching her sword in two hands, eager and ready to fight. She glared at the man she blamed for the deaths of Croon and Shade. The desire to kill him was intoxicating. This was the moment she'd been pining for. She tensed for the attack.

A searing pain exploded in her back. She cried out, stumbling forward as a weight suddenly pressed against her. Calls lurched her head to the side, gaping. The woman–

_She had a knife…!_

Whipping her gauntlet around, Calls backhanded the woman, knocking her to the floor. She refocused, only just deflecting a strike from Gilyn's sword. The maiden and the elf fought violently, stabbing, slashing, parrying blows. Calls unleashed the storm within her, lusting for vengeance. But as the battle dragged on, the elf woman's blade cut deeper into Calls' muscles with every motion. The pangs grew unbearable. There was nothing she could do about them. Gilyn struck at her with killing intent, leaving no room for pause or respite.

Calls grew desperate and made a reckless rush, slamming her sword down to slice through Gilyn's shoulder. Her opponent blocked the blow with the edge of his sword, instead of the flat, and bent his off hand down through the gap between her arms. In a swift, overturning motion, he pinned her arms against his waist in a cross hold. Calls would have to let go of her weapon to free herself. Still gripping his sword overhead, Gilyn hammered its pommel into Calls' skull.

Her vision blurred, head ringing with the shock of the blow. She could barely feel her sword as it slipped from her hands. Calls broke away, nearly falling over. Where was she standing? What were her bearings? Calls couldn't reorient herself. Gilyn's hazy figure grew large. There came a strange sensation, almost like a pinch in her side, then in her stomach. It left as soon as it came. She tried to slash at the man's face with her claws. Her arm was caught mid-swing. Gilyn threw the maiden to the ground, keeping a tight grip. He snapped the back of Calls' elbow against his leg with a loud crack.

Why wasn't she screaming in agony? She didn't feel _any_ pain. But as her senses came back to her, as the shock slowly wore off, she felt it. Fire. Coursing through every nerve in her body. She was dying. Calls' eyesight returned. She saw her arm lying broken in front of her. She saw blood pooling on the ground from a gap in her armor, the one Gilyn had driven his sword through. She saw _him,_ helping up the woman from earlier, embracing her.

The man turned back, walking slowly over to Calls. She tried to stand. Her legs refused to move. So much pain…

"I knew you lizards would come here," Gilyn said, coolly, squatting down to her level, "You called for help, didn't you? That lightning in the sky."

"Land striding… bastard… You're too late…" Calls hissed. Or at least she thought she did. She told her body to speak, but could not tell if it obeyed. Gilyn did not respond. Perhaps he couldn't interpret Jel. Whatever the case, Calls' insult was left to fall on her ears alone.

"I don't care if you can understand me or not," he continued, "I want you to know we're prepared for anything you send at us. No one is going to save you."

Another elf rushed into the study. The elderly man from before, called Dalvus. He set his eyes on Gilyn.

"I heard the scream…" he trailed off.

"It's alright. Orona is safe. I made it in time," Gilyn replied. The older elf relaxed, seeing the woman alive and well. He looked over at the ghastly Argonian bleeding out on the floor.

"Another?"

"Their leader, if I'm not mistaken."

"That makes her the last, then," Dalvus declared, "We caught one trying to escape with the stone."

A chill ran down Calls' spine. The elf held something in his hand. Croon's leather bag, stained with blood. Calls shut her eyes from the sight, pressing her snout against the cold floor. She wanted to cry. Gilyn took the bag and reached inside it, pulling out the shining white Varla Stone. He stared at it incredulously, and then looked down on the Argonian woman. He stifled a chuckle.

"_This_ was your plan?" he said, "You break into our stronghold. You kill my best warriors. And at the end of it, you think us all fools?"

The man kicked Calls in her stomach. She gasped, fighting to stay conscious.

"_Taking the stone?_ You thought _that_ was going to stop us!? Are the Dunmer so feeble now that you can squash us anytime you please!? Like ants beneath your feet!?"

Gilyn walked over to the strongbox Orona had tried to open.

"You thought stealing that one stone would leave us helpless and exposed… At the mercy of the Argonian army…"

He raised its lid and pulled out the object inside. Calls stared at it numbly.

The elf held in his hand a second Varla Stone.

"No. We were never going to make it _that_ easy."

Calls felt dizzy. She and her men accomplished nothing. Mud, Shade, and Croon had all died trying to fight a hopeless battle. Now the An-Xileel were coming in force, unwary of the Varla Stone's danger. They would be slaughtered.

"This is how it starts," Gilyn barked, "We will take _back_ the land of our ancestors, settlement by settlement! Even if we have to pry it from the dead claws of every last scale-skin we lay eyes on!" In the midst of her pain, Calls somehow felt remorse above everything. Her men were dead. More would die. Could she have stopped this somehow? Where did it all go awry?

It was over. To die with nothing but regrets… There was true defeat in that. The fight was lost. Completely. Calls braced herself for the end as Gilyn raised his weapon to land a killing blow.

The elderly elf cried out, his back struck by a sword. He spun around, only to be wrestled to the ground by a mid-sized figure, plunging his blade into the man's heart.

Brings-Rain.

"No!" Gilyn shouted, turning to see his companion killed, "You n'wah!"

He lunged toward the hatchling to strike him. His sword sliced air as the boy jumped aside. Rain dove for his legs. There was a flash of light reflecting off quicksilver. One sweep was all it took. Gilyn's shin was sliced open, crippling his mobility. He sprang back out of the hatchling's range, seething. Calls held her breath.

_ Is this happening…?_

Brings-Rain crouched into a readying stance. He wore a look of malice on his face. There were nicks and tears in his armor, some bloodied. Nearly all of his equipment was gone, save for the sword in his hand. The boy's hood was thrown back, revealing a pair of short, stubble horns and a head of brown feathers. Crimson red scales shone beneath the light of lamps. His eyes had changed. They were no longer soft, pupils narrowed and razor-like. They were the eyes of a killer. Fearsome.

He rushed his opponent, striking fast and light. Gilyn failed to stand his ground and began to slowly back away. Rain's offensive was unrelenting. The elf deflected one of the boy's attacks, countering with a sword swung down hard. Again it missed. Rain was too nimble, able to sidestep with frightening speed. Gilyn knocked aside a thrust from the boy's blade, only to flinch as a chitin blade suddenly lashed at him. The hatchling stood over the body of the man Calls killed earlier and had drawn the corpse's sword. He swung it in a reverse hold, narrowly missing the elf's head as he reeled away.

The tempest blew. Rain was now fighting in his element, armed in each hand, lashing at Gilyn with a whirlwind of whistling blades. Calls watched in awe. This hatchling – no, this _warrior_– was a bringer of death to match the shadowscales of old. Even as she laid dying, she found herself on the verge of laughter.

_To think you doubted them… The An-Xileel gave us our victory… Brings-Rain…_

A sweeping kick to the legs. Gilyn toppled clean on his back. Rain stood over him, the tip of his sword pulled back to thrust. Orona screamed. Not a scream of terror but of rage.

The hatchling saw her running toward him. She wasn't armed. All she could try to do was push him away.

Grimacing, he bent the point of his sword and drove it through her chest. No resistance. Gilyn hollered, helplessly watching as Rain pulled his weapon free. Orona crumpled to the ground. Flooding all the strength and anger he could muster, he kicked the young Argonian away and leapt upon him. Gilyn clenched his teeth, eyes filled with hatred as he wrestled the boy onto his back, grabbing him by the neck. Rain's smaller size left him disadvantaged. He fought to push away the elf, choking and gasping for air. Calls couldn't move. She couldn't help him. In the struggle he wringed his arm free and brought his fingers tight together like a spear-point. He aimed for Gilyn's neck and swung.

The elf gaped in shock. Rain's claws pierced as surely as any blade. His choke hold slackened. The hatchling pushed Gilyn off of him, coughing. There was a twitch in the man's limbs before his body laid still. Rain pushed himself up off the ground, his face covered in blood. He wiped it away and tried to stand, stumbling, inhaling ragged breaths. Calls shut her eyes.

Brings-Rain had won.

The struggle was nearly over. All they had to do now was escape with the Varla Stones.

…

… No… _He_ would escape. Calls would not. She knew she had to be left behind. Her wound was past the point of being healed – too much blood loss. She would not live to see the sun rise. In this realization, there came a small moment of calm. Calls could only think.

She thought of her men and pleaded to the Hist on their behalf for safe keeping. Their souls would see rebirth. Perhaps their lives to come would be bettered for their sacrifices. She thought of her son, an Arognian of barely ten cycles. Calls only knew him from afar, but loved him as only a mother could. She distanced herself from him, and all those living in peace. She was a warrior, always fighting, always traveling, serving her people with strength and honor. Their lives were not meant to cross. Would he mourn the loss of a woman he didn't know? The boy was not without family. He had his tribe. His father, too. Calls thought of her siblings. They would mourn her, if they were still alive. They weren't. The red-eyes saw to that. In the end, she would not be missed by anyone. The thought was painful.

But Calls would not have lived any other way. She did not regret who she was. She fought to the last. And now the troubles of her life would end, finally. Her mind was clear. Her heart felt at ease. _This_ was a death worth dying. She owed it all to that hatchling… At least he would still live.

The battle maiden opened her eyes one last time. Brings-Rain was not fleeing.

He pushed the weight of a bookshelf toward the study's door, slowly, arduously. His boots were slick. At last he leaned the shelf up against the wooden frame. There was pounding on the other side. Rain shuffled over and grabbed his sword. He stood facing the door… motionless. Waiting. Letting the enemy gather in numbers.

"Wh… What…?"

"Don't speak," the hatchling hissed between gasps of air, "Rest…"

"Why didn't you escape!?" Calls cried, barely raising her voice, "They'll kill you…!"

"They will not."

"Brings–"

"No one… is coming through this door…"

Calls beheld the boy in disbelief. Why was he throwing his life away? Was he mad? The woman looked upon hatchling's face. There she saw the last thing she expected: tears. Brings-Rain was crying.

"I was sent to protect you… all of you…"

Calls suddenly realized. For all his skill in killing, this hatchling hadn't come with killing intent. She remembered his words: _'We are here to prevent loss of life.'_ His thoughts were never of bloodshed. They were never of victory.

He didn't fight to kill. He fought to save.

And now, after everything, he still found strength to stand. He kept that will to fight. Calls found herself believing the boy's words. He would defend her to the end. She smiled. To think he seemed so timid before... Her first impressions of him had been proven wrong. So _wonderfully _wrong. He was still very young, but he showed himself distinct. Even at his age, he was more capable than any soldier she had ever known. Calls could only imagine the man he'd become, having the skills and knowledge of a warrior in his prime…

Brings-Rain would achieve great things for the Argonian people. She was sure of it. The thought brought Calls-From-Afar another strange sort of peace. Yet it also brought a twinge of sadness. She wanted to see the world men like him would bring.

And she would. Just not in this life.

Brings-Rain – called _Okan-Zeeus_ in the tongue of his people – was exhausted. He knew it. He simply refused to accept it.

_I won't let her die… I can't…_

The young Argonian stood there, barely standing, his sword clutched weakly in hand. He ignored the fatigue, hearing only the sounds of hammering on wood. He would fend off as many as he had to. There was no question in his mind. Nothing else mattered. He was here for a _reason_. The pounding stopped. More shouts rang out from the elves. Okan-Zeeus perked up. They were calls of distress. He stepped closer to the door, cautiously, listening with hopeful intent. From outside came sounds of battle, mixed with Argonian war cries. His hearing was not mistaken. The assault had come at last. He shoved aside the door barricade and rushed back to Calls-From-Afar.

"They're here!" he exclaimed, "The An-Xileel are attacking! We have to…"

Okan-Zeeus froze. The woman did nothing to acknowledge his presence. He felt knots twisting his stomach. She wasn't breathing.

_No…! She… she was alive! I saved her…_

The hatchling heard his sword clatter on the floor. A distant sound. He slumped down, hands propped behind him, holding up the weight his legs could no longer. In stillness he sat there, staring, fighting, denying the sight before him – as though by will he could somehow bring her back. He was begging, pleading for this not to happen, to not be real.

But… it _was_ real.

He succeeded in his mission. And yet he failed. He failed _all of them_. Okan-Zeeus forced himself closer to the woman, walking on all fours. Gently, he reached out and shut the battle maiden's eyes.

"Find peace in your next life," he said softly, his voice nearly quivering. The boy wore a look of mourning and defeat, a look no one would see. He sat back, retreating into himself, too tired to try and dam his tears anymore. In his mind's ear he cried out. _What went wrong? Why couldn't I protect them?_ It wasn't supposed to be this way. He should have been their strength. A fearless ally. A Zanxhu-Loh of the An-Xileel.

He wanted to blame himself, thinking he somehow could have saved the battle maiden from her wounds. But the boy knew better. He was no healer.

The battle raged outside. Okan-Zeeus could not bring himself to join it. His battle was over. After some minutes, footsteps echoed down the hall, coupled with the voices of Argonians. They were combing through the villa. The hatchling snarled and snapped over his hood to hide his crying face as he stood up. His legs ached. Why did they ache? He hadn't even used them that much… Or had he? A pair of Argonian soldiers arrived at the doorway. Both were clad in leather jerkins. The one behind had skin the color of burnt siena. He called something out to another down the hallway. The one in front had muddy green scales and a head of spines. He briefly glanced at the fallen elves, only just acknowledging the two glowing Varla Stones on the floor.

"Those stones were the source of the elves' magic," the hatchling said, "Take them."

The Argonian complied, stepping inside to scoop them up. He regarded the body of Calls-From-Afar.

"She is dead?" he asked.

Okan-Zeeus could only nodded.

"A sad thing… May the Hist guide her down river," the soldier lamented, "What of the others with you?"

"This one is the sole survivor."

"I see…" The soldier glanced back at his companion, who gave a curt acknowledgement and left to relay the news. He faced the hatchling once more. "You are the assassin, yes? The one sent from Archon?"

"I am."

"Ajum-Okur would speak to you. He is outside near the farm."

"What?" Okan-Zeeus startled, "Why has _he_ come here?"

"You should ask him yourself."

The young killer cursed inwardly. He had no desire to see that man, though little choice otherwise. Okan-Zeeus strode out of the room, fighting to keep his composure. It would do him no good to show weakness at a time like this. He was supposed to be a symbol to the Argonian people – an embodiment of the An-Xileel's strength and cunning. If only he felt like either of those things.

As he skirted his way through the villa, stepping over corpses and brushing past soldiers, he brooded. He was determined to figure out where everything had fallen apart. Of course, there was the guar… The one that nearly gave away his position. But he had no control over that. After staying back to hold the rear in the villa, the Dark Elves kept him from rejoining the others at every impasse. He fought them all down. He just couldn't get through quickly enough. Some managed to wound him. One even blinded him with a strange, bright powder. They were relentless. _Should I have stayed with the group instead of hanging back?_ Okan-Zeeus wasn't sure. He did not fight well in crowded spaces with no room to maneuver. He found it much easier to operate on his own – he worked better that way. So he took initiative whenever he saw the chance, first with the cellar guards, then with defending the stairwell.

_ Was that my mistake? Did she know better than I?_ He could have kept following that woman's orders. But the hatchling had been told expressly. He was outside of her command, given the freedom to act with impunity. His superiors regarded his survival as paramount, even above the lives of the assaulting force. Okan-Zeeus did not share in that opinion.

Outside, the boy gawked at the sight of so many Argonians gathered in one place; warriors, shamans, and bowmen, walking to and fro across the plantation, with scales of every color imaginable. Sleeps-In-Shade had been right about one thing: the An-Xileel's force overwhelmed the elves _easily_. Looking up, Okan-Zeeus noticed a pair of tentacles hanging limp over the villa. The farm's netches had been killed. More bodies of them laid nearby in the ash, their carapaces riddled with arrows and scorched by destruction spells.

Okan-Zeeus rubbed his nostrils. The scent of death was strong. Bodies of slain Dark Elves were strewn about. Some had even surrendered. The silence of the night was broken by screaming and crying. Women, children, and other bystanders were being dragged out the plantation's guard house, dressed in colorful dunmeri garbs and silk cloth. The hatchling watched in dismay. Why had the soldiers brought their families with them? They must have believed that they would be safe here, convinced by Gilyn somehow. Or perhaps the soldiers weren't willing to come here without them. Maybe that was the only way Gilyn could amass the forces he needed. He made them believe that this was really the beginning of a grand crusade to take back their land, that they would become invincible, harnessing the power of their Varla Stones. Sheer foolishness. And for what?

Okan-Zeeus shook off the questions. Knowing their answers would change nothing.

He looked around for signs of the one who sent for him, not bothering to ask others around for direction. He longed to be alone at a time like this. Okan-Zeeus peered out into the distance. Standing near the edge of the plantation was a large Argonian man, tall and overbearing in presence. Torchlight gleamed off of his blackish-blue scales, mohawk of spikes, and shadowspun robes. Ajum-Okur. Arch-Warden to the city of Archon. He noticed the hatchling's approach.

"Okan-Zeeus. You are alive. Good," Okur said with a smile, arms folded. His tail swayed slowly back and forth.

"Did you think I would die so easily…?" the boy hissed, glaring.

"Don't speak nonsense. Surviving has become your hallmark."

_For what good that did…_ "What are you doing here?"

"Checking to make sure you have done well, of course."

Okan-Zeeus let out a soft croak. There were times when he thought he liked Okur. The Argonian had an air of authority and wisdom, never bending beneath the strains he bore. But his pleasantries were superficial at best. He was a cynic, so often bitter. Okan-Zeeus hated his vitriol. Okur would always judge the worth of one's scales by their performance and merit. Sometimes it seemed as though nothing else mattered to him.

"Are the others here too?" the hatchling asked, looking away.

"Ixtha-Kai and Zollassa are away on their own assignments. Veethei remains in Archon for the moment."

Okan-Zeeus sighed. "I should have figured I wasn't the only one keeping busy."

"Such is the nature of your work."

"That and you never grow tired of giving us tests."

"What makes you assume this assignment was part of your training?"

_I've been 'training' my entire life. You came here to debrief and evaluate me._ _Any dry-scale can spot a trend…_

"It is just a guess," Okan-Zeeus said.

"Don't make presumptions. You are _partially_ correct, but this wasn't meant to be a true training exercise."

"So _why_ have you come here?"

"I already told you," Okur scowled, baring his teeth slightly at the boy, "I have come to check on you. Okan-Zeeus, you were sent on this job specifically to work with an outside party. Zollassa and Ixtha-Kai are both doing the same. Veethei will eventually have his chance. It is important for us to know that each of you can operate with other teams, beyond merely the four of you together. That is why we sent you here."

_ What!? I wasn't told that! _

"...What about the others? Will you check on them as well?"

"No. We have confidence in Kai and Zollassa, but you have shown that you work poorly with groups. Mahei-Ru and I were not sure if you were ready. We considered withholding you from this assignment."

Okan-Zeeus stared at the Arch-Warden, wide eyed.

"You… thought I would fail…?"

"It was believed you would complete the task. And you did."

"But…" The boy couldn't bring himself to speak further. Okur sighed, gazing out toward the villa.

"I was told what happened. Those you were sent to aid did not survive. This is what we were afraid of. It is regrettable, but we can do nothing about it now." Okan-Zeeus felt a bitter mixture of anguish and rage.

_ I did everything I could! I wanted to protect them! I tried!_

Okan-Zeeus realized his fingers were tense, claws ready. He stole himself. The boy relaxed, downcast, letting his anger fade away.

_ What were you going to do, pond scum? Strike the man...? Are you no better than that?_

"In any case, our forces prevailed," Okur continued, "Your efforts thwarted the elves and saved many. Mahei-Ru and I will remember this event the next time we decide to lend your services." More and more, Okan-Zeeus felt like a tool in the hands of others, always being passed around. Truly told, he _was_ a tool, one that happened to be very good at killing.

Not at saving lives…

Ajum-Okur stood at rest, watching the Argonian forces as they herded the elves like cattle. The boy followed his gaze.

"What will happen to them?" he asked.

"I do not know. These dry-scales hail from Shadowfen. They do not answer to me," the Arch-Warden said flatly, "The elves may become prisoners of war. That, or they will be killed. Their numbers are unfortunately inconvenient."

Okan-Zeeus only grew unhappier at that. _Do these people really deserve such a fate? What was their crime? Following a mad-man to the depths of Oblivion?_ Okur looked down at his ward, seeing him troubled.

"Don't be so sullen, Okan-Zeeus. You mustn't let the deaths of your comrades weigh you down. Failure is only that if you learn nothing from it. Reflect on your experience here. You will do better on your next assignment."

The Arch-Warden began to walk away, beckoning for the young assassin to join him. Okan-Zeeus lingered, but eventually caught up. He wanted to do as Okur said. He did not want to let this day weigh him down. But that was much more easily said than done. He couldn't bring himself to let go. His mind became a tangled mess – a tumult of questions, doubts, accusations, fears, regrets.

In this, one thought stood out. One thought haunted him more than any other.

You will do better on your next assignment.

_ My next assignment_…

He would have to do this again. Countless times. He would be sent to kill more people. He would watch others die. This was his life now. The honor to which he had been called.

_No… Not an honor… A curse…_

Okan-Zeeus glanced back, welled with emotions, the greatest among them sadness. The sounds of shouting and wailing grew faint. He never asked for this life. He did not want it. Yet having known no other path, the boy chose obedience and continued walking through the ashes, his young mind loathing the senselessness of it all.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Thank you for reading my tale. The story of Okan-Zeeus does not end here. His adult life continues in Dragon of the East, my Skyrim Retelling. <em>**

**_Check out my profile page for links to the work, if you're interested. _**

**_- OZ_**


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